


The Highlights of Being a Split End

by Introsquirrel



Series: A Little Off the Top [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: KIND of canon, M/M, Purring Trolls, Sorry for the pun, also some not so fluffy things, hair combing, horn touching, lots o' fluff, tickle attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-28
Updated: 2013-02-28
Packaged: 2017-12-03 21:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Introsquirrel/pseuds/Introsquirrel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the list of "Things Karkat Needs to Remember To Pack for Surviving This Fucking Game, In Order of Priority," hair styling utensils fell somewhere between "rubble that crushed my lusus" and "last sweep's decomposable trash, recently unburied from the back lawnring, along with all those bodies of the undead I had to kill." In other words, somebody needs to give that boy a brush.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Highlights of Being a Split End

**Author's Note:**

> The next chapter of BDAE is giving me SUCH a hard time. So, I did the only logical thing and wrote an entirely new fic to help me climb out of the hole I fell into. This was written in one day without an idea about it beforehand. Also, I am so so very sorry about the title, it was the only applicable pun I could come up with.
> 
> EDIT: Took care of the formatting and grammar/spelling/tense issues that were bothering me.

There were some certain human or humans – you are not going to name any names – who, for some reason or another, assumed that trolls had concupiscent cycles. This was stupid and the human or humans who thought it up were stupid for doing so. You have told said human or humans this. Twice. Trolls didn’t really have cycles, per se, just timeframes of high hormone fluctuations. You opted to call them “periods” before Rose had to (drunkenly) explain to you that the name “period” was already taken, and then she gave you a detailed description of what it entailed. Human anatomy is not only really fucking weird but also really fucking disgusting. But it also emphasizes your point about the stupidity of mating cycles. You think.

In any case, the worst part of it all was that everyone seemed to go hormone crazy at the same time; you had read somewhere that if you put a bunch of adolescents in a confined space together, their bodies will start to sync up. This was good news for the most part, meant everybody lost their shit and hid themselves at the same time. It pretty much sucked for anyone without any of their quadrants filled – AKA you. It also sucked for anyone who got restless during these times and would wander the halls, thus accidentally coming across the odd couple in a compromising position and embarrassing everyone involved – also you. You are better off staying seated and not exploring the dark corners of the lab. But you are restless. A little stir crazy. And bored out of your think pan.

It was at these times that you crave the weirdest things, like hugs or paps or – god forbid – kissing, and you have no way to satisfy these urges because Gamzee is an entitled brainwashed shithead, Terezi doesn’t really talk to you any more, Kanaya spends all her time with Rose, Rose spends all her time with Kanaya, and Dave is… well, Dave. Your conversations with him always tended to spiral down into what Rose called “Freudian Slips” and Dave rolling with any perverted subtext that may or may not be present. So whenever the chemicals in your body decided to go all cuddle monster on you, you do everyone else a favor and hide in your block, pile blankets on yourself, and try not to think about anything. Another name for this would be a “nap.”

You are in the middle of not thinking about anything when someone knocks on your hiveblock door. You wait five seconds, and then unbury yourself. Gamzee didn’t knock and Terezi would have knocked and came in regardless of you answering or not. You are sort of expecting Kanaya. You find Dave there instead.

He lifts a hand and greets you with, “Sup.”

“What the hell do you want,” you say, with more confusion than heat.

Dave shrugs a shoulder. “Bored. Ran out of shit to do in my room, decided to visit the only other person without their tongue down someone else’s throat.”

You make a face and think about yelling at him for that, but it sounds too tired to be an insult. The more time you spend in the human’s presence, the better you can read his moods and therefore his intentions. This one reads, “For the love of all that is good and holy, help me not succumb to the urge to throw myself off the meteor just to see what happens.”

“Unless you’re busy, I guess, doing weird troll shit or whatever. Sharpening your nails, polishing your horns, watching shitty movies and taking them too seriously. I can go.”

You roll your eyes and step aside. “I was thinking about taking a nap, but fuck if I want to deal with ghosts right now.”

Dave shuffles in with a smirk and says, “Amen to that.”

You close the door behind him and try to figure out what to do now. Your block isn’t exactly a cacophony of fun-times and thought-provoking activities.  Dave pauses to look around and you wonder if he’s ever been in your block before. How did he even know where it was? Whatever. You’ve never been in his block before but you knew exactly how to get there. Three different routes at least.

God, this meteor is so boring.

The block is one of the smaller ones, because you don’t have a lot of stuff and having a larger room would be useless. You have a cushioned sleeping platform that the humans suggested you sleep on, approximately five thousand yards worth of afghans, a desk, a portable husktop, a tiny entertainment system against a wall, and the universe’s most uncomfortable couch. Everyone hated the couch. Even the Mayor hated the couch, and you were pretty sure the Mayor wasn’t capable of hate. This is why you dragged it into your block; because if there is one thing you are familiar with, it is hating things that you can’t get rid of easily. Dave stands in the middle of the room and pointedly stares at the posters you managed to salvage.

He remarks, “Cozy.”

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to pry themselves away from their quadrants long enough to socialize with a peon,” you say, “so I don’t exactly have curriculum of roleplaying scenarios and board games available.”

He smirks at you. “Good thing at least one of us was thinking ahead.” He messes with his sylladex a bit and a book pops out. He holds it up to you proudly, like he expects you to give him a gold star. Good job, asshole, you can read!

“That’s the book I’m reading out loud.” You frown. “But Rose isn’t here.”

“Yeah, well, she had the choice between a taco party and story time with Karkles, and since she isn’t here, I’m guessing she went for the clam chowder.”

“Those were a lot of words formed into a sentence,” you say, “and most of them were complete bullshit. What the fuck is a taco party?”

He waves a hand and pats your head. “I’ll tell you when you’re older. Come on, I’m dying to know what Detective Blue Asshole found out when Sister Stick Up Her Ass did some messed up vacillating quadrant fuckery with Rusty the Trusty Organic Engineer. Or maybe they can actually talk about the murder crime for a few pages. God, wouldn’t that be a plot twist. What’s that? Adding actual plot to a bodice ripper? No, that’s blasphemy, take that shit out of there, who the hell reads books for actual mystery, Jesus, somebody get an editor to cut this bull from this literary masterpiece. Look, now it’s mindless and stupid, just the way the masses like it. Fuck increasing mental capacity, somebody’s totally getting off on this.”

“Shut up Dave.”

“I get no fucking respect around here, I tell you.”

You both rearrange the blankets on your cushioned sleeping platform (which the humans call a “bed”) by shoving a majority of the blankets against the wall and creating a backrest. You both settle down, side-by-side, shoulders and hips and knees touching. He’s warm; almost as warm as you, and your hormones are singing with, “oh god yes physical contact please and thank you.” (You barely stop yourself from scooting closer – fuck hormones, you have dignity.) Dave slouches and you wiggle around until you’re comfortable enough to stay mostly still for a few hours. Then you open to where you left off the day before and start reading. The book is admittedly pretty terrible. It had been Dave’s turn to pick one out and he went for this one because of the cover. The title art is pretty fantastic, but the book is shit. Dave usually interjects with “what the fuck” commentary. You stopped caring about that habit three books ago.

You get through an entire chapter before Dave starts his I-Must-Constantly-Be-In-Motion-At-All-Times-Or-My-Legs-Will-Suck-All-The-Blood-From-The-Rest-Of-My-Body-And-Explode-Messily, which is pretty normal for him. Unfortunately, he doesn’t do his usual thing of getting up and pacing. He doesn’t even get up. He shoves a hand in your hair, and you choke on your own lingual muscle.

“What the _fuck are you_ -“

“Broseph,” he said, tugging his finger through the strands. “When is the last time you combed your hair? You could probably hang Christmas ornaments in here; make you stand in a bucket of water and put presents under you. Dance around you holding hands and singing happy birthday to some dude who’s destined to get nailed to a tree. You trying to grow something in here? Do  you even brush?”

“Wow, fuck off,” you snap, trying to bat him away. Your hand comes in contact with his face, but his arms are longer than yours, so pushing him away doesn’t do much good. “Who the hell cares what my hair looks like? It doesn’t matter as long as it’s clean, which it is, just so you know.”

He sticks his other hand in, because it’s Dave and he will only respect personal boundaries when it’s convenient for him. “Yeah, but do you even comb it out?”

“Do I look like I own a comb? It wasn’t exactly high on my list is ‘shit to pack’ when we started the game.” He pulls your head back so he can give you a look of unamused disbelief. “I use my fingers, okay? It works just fine.”

“You’re gonna get mats, dude. As dexterous as your fingers are on a keyboard, they aren’t doing your flowing locks much good. Pumping out sick fires and grotesque lexicon isn’t exactly a useful prerequisite for eliminating entanglement. Don’t you have conditioner or something?”

You scrunch up your snout at him. “Do I have _what_?”

“Figures,” he mutters. He takes his hands out, thank fuck. “One sec, I think I have a – aight, here it is. Turn around.”

His sylladex pops and he holds up a tiny hand-held saw looking thing. You are frankly alarmed. “What the fuck is that.”

“It’s a comb.”

You scoot away from him. “That is not a comb. You keep that torture device away from my head, I am armed and willing to take out a few of your fingers for my own safety.”

“What?” He frowns at you. “Karkles, it’s just a comb. For detangling hair.” To your horror, he runs it through his own hair. “See?”

“Stay away from me,” you tell him.

He gives you this look of exasperation and dives forward, grabbing a hand before you get your legs untangled from themselves to run. You resist, but it’s easier to pull than to resist being pulled on a pile of knitting and woven fabric. He holds up your wrist in one hand, the comb in the other, and you honestly think he’s going to chop off your fingers. You drop the book and start pulling back.

“No, no, fuck no, hell fucking no, let go you mentally impaired toolshed! Do not want!” You yell and try kicking him. He says, “oof” and then runs the teeth of the comb over the back of your hand. You somehow manage to strangle back a scream and squeeze your eyes shut, waiting for pain and the feeling of blood dripping over your ligaments. You feel nothing other than the unpleasant lingering discomfort of dull plastic points being scrapped across your hand. You crack an eye open.

“Oh my god,” Dave says. “What the fuck was that? I keep forgetting what a drama queen you are sometimes. It’s a _comb_ , bro, a _comb_. What did you think it was?”

Your hand isn’t even marked. “I used to cut animal bones with something that looked like that,” you rasp, and feel like a toolshed yourself.

“This can’t cut through anything. If I throw it at the wall hard enough, half of the teeth will snap off. Now stop being a spaz and turn around so I can get this nest under control. Shit, you’d think I was the homicidal juggalo douche or something. If you start hyperventilating, I am so gone.”

He hands you the book back and takes a hold of your shoulders to maneuver your back to him. You let him, because you feel really stupid for freaking out. Of course Dave wouldn’t try to permanently injure you; Knights don’t _do_ that shit to people.

He scoots you back until your lower back comes in contact with his crossed legs and he takes a hold of a hunk hair and gets to work. It’s not very pleasant. It’s actually pretty painful.

“Ow,” you hiss and try to lean out of his grasp.

“Sit still, this is gonna take some work. Just keep reading or something, sheesh.”

You growl and he makes the poor human imitation of a growl back. Then you find the place you left off and start reading out loud again, voice getting strained whenever he pulls particularly hard.

“Jesus fuck,” he murmurs, not even two pages in. “We gotta get you a brush or something because this is ridiculous. You do know that you can’t get your hair fully clean when you have a bunch of Gordian Knots fused to your skull, right? Alexander the Great would look at this and be like, ‘Shit, man, I give up. Keep Macedonia and Greece or whatever, I’mma haul ass to Egypt where this fuckery doesn’t happen.’ That’s how bad this is.”

You give him the finger and he takes that as an invitation to elaborate further. “I mean, yeah, Kanaya has her own lady needs to think about, but you’d think she’d notice this with her whole Fashion Police business. I know you’re pretty much perpetually rocking the bedhead look, but you gotta have some standards. I bet sparrows could hibernate for the winter in here. I bet _bears_ could hibernate for the winter in here.”

You jerk forward, out of his reach and glare back at him. “Do you want me to read, or should I just put this book away and resign myself to an evening of listening to you shit talk about me, literally behind my back? It’s bad enough that you’re fucking touching me and forcing me to participate in this unwanted and unwarranted torture spree, the least you could do is let me suffer in _silence_.”

Rolling his head in such a way that you know he’s rolling his eyes, he pulls your shoulder back to him. “Yeah, fine. Keep reading and I’ll shut up about your lovely mane.”

“Good,” you mutter, and take a deep breath. You start reading again and trying your best to ignore the irritating sensation of someone constantly tugging your head backwards.

Two more chapters in and it suddenly occurs to you that he no longer is trying to tear out all of your hair bit-by-bit. He’s just running the comb through easily, letting it glide through and gently pulling your bangs out of your face, carefully avoiding your horns. It’s… nice. Relaxing. Surprisingly so.

After a while he abandons the comb all together and just uses his hands (what a hypocrite), pushing your hair around pressing his fingertips into your scalp. You try not to lean back into the pressure with only moderate success. The entire thing is admittedly more intimate than you’re used to. You can’t remember the last time someone touched you in any sort of prolonged way. You’re part suspicious, part apathetic, and part raging hormonal seven sweep old loser. Oh well. At least he isn’t talking.

Suddenly, he digs his nails into your scalp and, oh. _Oh_. Wow. You could get used to this. His nails drag down the back of your head to the nape of your neck, then he places his thumbs on either side of your spinal column and presses. He continues the pressure while dragging his thumbs back up the back of your head and you accidentally stop reading to let out a pleased sigh.

Dave snorts, sounding amused. “Unwanted torture spree, huh?”

“Shut up,” you say, and hope he can’t see your face because you’re smiling just a little. “Under any other circumstance I would kick your ass for getting all up in my grill like this, but I’ll let it slide this time.”

“How generous of you,” he says.

“I’m the most generous fucking guy you’ll ever meet in your entire miserable life.”

He slides his hands back up to your temples with all his fingers and scratches the area behind your ears, moving upward. A small part of you is telling you that this is getting really fucking pale. Another part of you reminds you that not only do humans not have quadrants, but everyone else is swapping saliva and possibly grinding their hips together. Head skritches are pretty platonic and unlikely to get you into trouble. Besides, it’s not like you have a moirail anymore.

Tipping your head back slightly to give him a better angle, he slowly and cautiously moves to the top of your skull, and then to the base of your horns. He rubs at the felt-like skin there and digs a dull nail in. Your think pan abruptly stops trying to convince you to tell him to cut it out. He fingers around the base. You float happily in bliss, focusing on the sensation and feeling of Dave’s hands in your hair, on your horns. Your hormones are slowed down to a crawl. You could probably fall asleep right here and appear in front of the eldritch abominations and just happily wave to them with a huge stupid grin on your face.

“I got a question,” Dave says suddenly.

You are pretty much done with thinking, but you pull your think pan out of its endorphin ridden stupor anyway. “Hn?”

“Are your horns sensitive?”

Well, that’s a stupid question. You grunt. “Let’s think about this for a bit. What are horns normally used for?” Your voice feels thick and slurred, like you just woke up.

The answer doesn’t come right away, and his fingers pause for a moment. He finally quips, “Head butting jealous lovers and goring pedestrians.”

“Well,” you say. “There you go.”

“Aight, but Rez said that touching them was this trust thing and she got really uncomfortable when I touched hers.”

Ah. You swallow and dig your thoughts out of the bottom of your thinking matter. “Well, your head is a vulnerable spot and horns can basically act as leverage for your enemies to use.” You pause, forming your explanation of the next part before you actually speak. “Terezi isn’t comfortable with anything she can’t see or feel. Her horns are sort of a blind spot.” You think about what you just said. “Figuratively speaking. It’s hard to figure out exactly what’s going on up there, and you can’t exactly just sniff the top of your own head to confirmation. I imagine it was less of a trust issue and more of a personal comfort issue.”

“They’re not an erogenous zone, are they? They’re not some kinky troll taboo?”

“Would I be letting you touch my horns if they were,” ugh words, “if they were either of those things?”

You can feel Dave shrug. “I dunno. Maybe you’re that desperate.” You try to growl with no success. “And I don’t really know a lot about troll turn-ons or, you know, what the main signals are for arousal. Never heard Rez make _that_ noise though.”

It takes you a minute to fully process that statement. “What noise,” you manage, trying to listen. Low and quiet is a rapid click that sounds awfully like…

You bring a hand up to your lower throat. It’s vibrating.

Oh.

Oh shit.

This suddenly got awkward.

It also explains why you’re having some trouble talking. You swallow thickly again and attempt to push down your purring to a less noticeable level. Then Dave drags his nails across the base of both of your horns at the same time and it’s like you aren’t even trying any more.

“So,” Dave muses. “Is this a troll thing or just a Karkitty thing?”

Fucking nicknames. “Troll,” you manage.

“Right. And what kind of troll thing is this?”

It means that I feel really safe right now, you don’t say. It means that he’s doing a better job at being a moirail than Gamzee ever did. It means that you are incredibly, undeniably, thoroughly happy right now; content and sedated and safe and warm and just so blissfully, stupidly happy. It also kind of means you’re aroused, yeah. But only on a manageable level. Like, you aren’t even considering sex. But if he presses any more of his body against you, you’re probably going to grab him and bury him in the blankets with you and get as much contact as possible.

Instead you say, “Means that I don’t think you’re entirely terrible.”

“You sound like a bug,” he informs you, and it sounds like he’s trying not to laugh. “We used to have these things called cicadas in Huston. They were loud motherfuckers, buzzed all goddamn summer. That’s what you are, dude. You are a cicada, young grasshopper. It’s you."

“Oh my god,” you say and regretfully pull yourself away from his hands. He follows you a bit. You bat one hand away and get your purring under control. “Hasn’t Terezi ever taken off her shirt in front of you?”

He deadpans. “What.”

“It’s a legitimate question! Have you ever seen a troll torso?”

“No,” he ventures, slowly, like he’s unsure where this is going and suspicious of the destination.

You huff and scoot away from him. “Listen up, nookstain, because this is important shit you should have already picked up on. We’re born from a giant bug monster, wiggle around on six grub legs for half of our first sweep, and then our legs fall off and we become bipedal. The legs leave scars.” You lift up part of your sweater to show him and he makes a noise like he’s going to say, “stop, no, anything but that.” Whatthefuckever, it’s not like he hasn’t wandered around without a shirt on, and there’s nothing there he probably hasn’t seen before except for the grub leg scars. Human and trolls are built pretty similarly, except for a few dramatic differences in reproduction organs.

“See,” you say while ignoring your own discomfort at showing skin. Showing skin meant exposing more space for injury, which meant more chances to start bleeding, which meant higher probabilities to get found out and culled. But no one on the meteor gives two shits about your blood color, so your paranoia is pointless.

Dave stares at the exposed scars and actually looks over his shades at them. “Are you fucking serious,” he gripes. “You guys _are_ basically bugs?”

“Of course not,” you snap. “We’re grubs. They’re kind of a mammal-insect hybrid. We don’t have exoskeletons, idiot.”

“Wow,” he says. And then again, “Wow.” He reaches a hand out slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull your shirt down and pull away, but you don’t. You don’t really know why. A few of his fingers lightly brush the raised skin of your uppermost scar and you squeak and jump away, shoving your shirt down. 

“What,” he says, frowning.

“Nothing!” you say, flailing your hands a bit. “It just… it felt weird.”

“Weird.”

“As in, strange! Don’t make me come up with synonyms, we’ll be here all night.”

He cocks his head at you before smirking. “You’re ticklish.”

You can feel heat rise to your face and you snap, “Of course not.”

He snorts. “You totally are.”

“I am not ticklish. How abysmal would that be, a ticklish troll? That’s the most moronic thing you’ve ever said and you vomit up some pretty horrendous bullshit. We could probably fill a seadweller containment unit with the amount of word vomit you emit. I bet we could even fill a – _don’t touch me_.”

To your horror, Dave outright grins. “Why? You’re not ticklish, right? Nothing to worry about, just gonna feel up your freaky baby feet lumps, bro. Ain’t anything more innocent than that.”

“I will make you bleed,” you say and his smile gets sinister. “I will break your shades.” Somehow, the grin gets more sinister. Hoo, boy. Time to ollie outy.

Unfortunately, Dave is a speedy motherfucker and grabs you around the waist before you can even get your feet on the floor. You shriek and try to thrash your way out of his grasp, even grabbing off his shades to see if he’ll let go. He doesn’t. Instead, he pushes you onto your back and shoves his hands up your sweater and starts to wiggle his fingers. You shriek again and thrash harder. Oh god, oh god, stop it, stop it, stop it, oh god, can’t breathe, oh fuck your life.

“Whyyyyy,” you wheeze out.

“Yup, you aren’t ticklish at all,” Dave laughs. “Totally not losing your shit here. I believe everything you say, always.”

You try pushing on his face again, kicking your legs, but he straddles your thighs and he doesn’t need to actually look at you to tickle you, which is endlessly frustrating. You can’t stop laughing. Your hands are getting pathetically weak when you try batting him away. Life is terrible. You are going to laugh yourself to death and Dave will have murdered you by good mirth. Gamzee will probably recruit him into his crazy-ass clown religion and everyone will just have to stick knitting needles in their ears to drown out all the slam poetry.

Suddenly he lifts up your sweater and presses his mouth to your stomach and _blows_. You make the weakest and most pathetic scream you’ve ever managed. You try to renew your thrashing vigor, but your body is telling you to fuck off until you get some oxygen in your system. He sits up looking smug and wearing a shit-eating grin, eyes bright. You are panting and your limbs feel heavy. You can’t stop twitching and giggling like a fucking wriggler. The world around you is brightening from gray-like hues back to full color and your digestion sac aches for some reason and your shirt has ridden up in the process. Your face aches. Lifting a hand up to your face, you realize that you are, in fact, grinning.

“Goddamnit Strider,” you pant out. “I was saving up all that laughter for when we defeat Lord English and can laugh in his face about what a terrible person… thing he is. It would have been the most joyous, motherfucking miraculous mirthful moment in the history of paradox space. And you had to go and ruin it all.”

“I’m pretty sure,” he muses, “that I could wring a few more giggles out of you.”

“Oh god no.”

“I think you mean oh god yes, Strider, yes, yes, fuck, give it to me-“

“Argh!” You shove both hands into his face. He grabs your wrists and you struggle to twist them free, trying to sit up. He’s still straddling your thighs and you’re still weak with oxygen deprivation. The amount of time it takes him to push you down again is frankly humiliating. You’re panting again, and you unintentionally let out a whine. His face and your face are inches away from each other.

The sound of a well oiled motor running strikes up again, to your horror. What the fuck, body, stop purring!

“Your pupils are huge,” he says.

“So are yours,” you retort.

The room clicks up a few degrees in temperature if how you feel in your sweater is any indication, his face is redder than usual. You compulsively swallow again; you really need to stop doing that.

“How’re you and Terezi doing,” you blurt out.

He doesn’t lean back. “We’re taking a break. She’s got another… she’s got another thing going on and it’s getting pretty creepy. So we’re taking a break for now, see how it works out.”

Right, the “super secret” blackrom between Terezi and Gamzee that you aren’t supposed to know about.

“Oh,” you say, and try to figure out what to do next. Ideas so far: kiss him. Terrible ideas so far: kiss him and bite his stupid nose.

He looks so _human_ without his shades, almost like a different person. You can see him look up, over you. He mumbles, “I’m gonna touch your horns again." 

“Shit.”

“Can’t stop me, I’m doing this bro, I’m making this happen.”

He lets go of your wrists and balances himself so he can reach without crushing you in the process. On impulse, you wrap your arms around his torso and duck your head under his chin to attempt to tell him to sit up without speaking. It doesn’t work too well, he just tries to pry you off of him.

“I’m trying to save your back from having to hold you up, chucklefuck, just sit the fuck up and it’ll be easier on everyone involved.”

“Pfft, so demanding. You are the most high maintenance.” But he leans back up anyway, sitting on your legs, but also having a better angle. You bury your face in his neck and melt into the intimacy and the warmth of it. He smells like soap and coffee. He wraps his arms partially around your back, so he can get at your horns from the back. Then he slides his hands into your hair, pressing in finger pads and nails, until he gets to the felty base and starts rubbing again. You are purring so loudly now, how did you not notice it before. God, you are probably the only troll who can’t control his purring.

You relax into the position anyway, concentrating on the heat, the way your bodies don’t really fit together and how it seems to work anyway. It feels like he can’t get close enough to you, like you could absorb him through your skin and it still wouldn’t be enough. You pull him in tighter and whine into his neck, then you compulsively kiss him right under his jawbone.

He freezes and your pan starts up a chant of, “oh shit oh shit you blew it you stupid nookbite what the hell did you even do that for were you even _thinking_ -“ Until he pulls you back by your horns and looks at you, eyes lidded and close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. He leans forward, just a bit, enough to give you a pretty good idea of what he’s thinking about doing, letting you back out of it. Like fuck you are. Like you’re even capable by this point.

He kisses you, light and short and you think, “fuck _this_ ,” right before you press your lips against his with admittedly more passion than experience. It’s weirdly dry and your snouts squish together, but then he cocks his head and opens up his mouth and oh fuck yes, this. His teeth are dull and he tastes like Alternia. He coaxes your lingual muscle – fuck it, tongue – out from between your lips with just a few opens and closes of his mouth. Moving a hand up to his hair, you chase a gasp into his throat. Dave hums and drags his nails over your scalp again, moving one hand down to the back of your neck.

“Fuck,” he breathes into your mouth, before pulling back just enough nudge your head to the side slightly and nip just below your ear. Your breath becomes gasps for a second or two. “Fuck, this shouldn’t be this awesome.”

A hand is still on one of your horns so you can only answer dragging your nails down his back and cocking your head to give him more access to your neck. It’s his turn to gasp. He moves his hand down to your lower back and sneaks it under your shirt, tracing the outline of your spine. You shiver and whimper, and he bites you neck and digs another nail into the base of your horn. When you moan (loudly, pornographically, shamelessly) he tilts your head back to swallow all the embarrassing noises you’re making and lick the roof of your mouth.

(Buried underneath all the sexual tension and hormonal high, you are thinking that either you have one hell of a neglected horn kink going on, or your body just overloads you with endorphins when you get horn massages – yet another fantastic gift from your mutation.)

Things are starting to get a little too hot and hazy, you think fuzzily. You duck your head to drag your teeth down his jugular and pull his collar down so you can bite a clavicle. You lick the bite mark you made and whisper, “I think we should stop.” Instead of listening to your own advice, you drag your tongue from his shoulder to his ear and he makes a needy noise that jolts right down your back and to your bugle. “This is getting, ahh, a little out of hand, fuck.”

He tugs your hair to force your head back and bites your neck. Oh shit, that feels fantastic. You are incoherent in moments. He licks the bite mark and blows on it, giving your entire upper body honkbird bumps. You whimper again.

“What was that Vantas,” he says against your throat. “Couldn’t hear you over the montage of ‘yes yes oh fuck Strider yeah right there.’ Might want to repeat that.” Then he rolls his hips and you fight not to lean backwards and pull him down with you.

“Fuck,” you hiss, regretfully forgetting to add a “you” afterwards. “C-cut it out. If you don’t st-stop, hngh, then I won’t and – and – oh god, yes – D-Dave, please - “ You don’t know how to finish that statement. And _what_ , your body asks, what will happen; you’ll finally get laid? And you’re against this? You are your own bulgeblocker.

Dave gives your neck one more nip before releasing your hair – and your horn. His hand is still up your shirt, but it’s not moving. You let your head fall on his shoulder and feel him panting. You’re breathing pretty heavily yourself. The self-provided white-noise stays on until you can take a few deep breaths and force yourself to stop clicking. Being absurdly turned on isn’t helping. You try to conjure up something incredibly unsexy. Terezi and Gamzee sucking face in the air ducts. Except that Gamzee is suddenly Dave macking on Terezi and neither of them are wearing shirts –

“Well fuck,” Real Dave says, thankfully interrupting your thoughts before they get too graphic. “Wasn’t expecting that to happen.”

“Oh,” you say, putting a little bite in your voice. (Maybe if you sound convincing enough, you’ll turn into a real fairy, you just have to clap your hands and believe!) You clear your throat to get the last of the purring out of your system. “So you didn’t visit with the intention to seduce me into a poorly judged one night stand and mark me up? That clears things up, I was confused there for a moment.”

“I barely even like you.”

“And that’s exactly why you just spent the last half hour groping my horns and trying to get your hands up my sweater. Please, elaborate on what exactly you _thought_ you were doing?”

“You weren’t exactly pushing me away there, bro.” He tugs you back so you’ll actually have to look at him. His pupils are blown and his lips are red and swollen. Fffffff – you could be tapping that right now, you totally _don’t_ think. “You were pretty much throwing yourself at me for a while. You were all damsel in distress, save me Obi-Wan, take me now you magnificent stallion. If you had a bodice, it would be ripped enticingly while you made duck faces at me. If you said, draw me like one of your French girls, I wouldn’t have gotten the picture as clear as you made it.”

“Oh, ex _cuse_ me,” you say with a scowl while shoving his hand off your shoulder, “for being a little attention starved when everyone else can just fuck off with someone any old damn time they want while I sit here and fondle my own shame globes for lack of anything better to do. I’m sorry, I’ll be more conscious of the fact that you’re used to someone who gets consistent physical contact next time.” You… really didn’t mean to say that. Shit. Fuck.

“Stop being such a needy dumbass, it’s not like your clown bro hasn’t been visiting these past few weeks. I just saw him, like, yesterday.”

You grunt unenthusiastically. “That’s great news, I’m glad to hear it. It’s really nice to know that despite me having an overwhelmingly free schedule and being virtually next door to his current location, my moirail _still_ doesn’t give enough fucks to actually, I don’t know, say hi or honk at me or something.”

He opens his mouth before closing it again without saying anything. Open, hesitate, close. He looks conflicted. You wonder if he’s considering telling you about Gamzee and Terezi’s Totally-Subtle-But-Not-Subtle-At-All-It’s-Actually-Embarrassingly-Obvious fling. You contemplate acting shocked for all of negative three seconds.

Instead he says, “Well, shit,” and kisses you again, simple and short. Your cardiovascular pump dies just a little. When he pulls back he adds, “Sorry.”

To be honest, you don’t know exactly what he’s apologizing for. Doesn’t matter much anyway, because now things are probably going to be awkward for you both. Awesome. You can’t wait to spend the rest of this ghost-ridden joyride on casual speaking terms with absolutely fuckall.

You put your head in your hands and rub your face. “Look, can you just,” a deep breath. “You can just… go. If you want. There’s nothing to do here and I’m just a fucking desperate emotional liability, so there’s really no point in staying.” You will not cry, you will not cry, you will fucking not cry you useless piece of shit. You are not even attractively pitiable at this point.

He gently takes a hold of your wrists to pry the away from your face and ducks his head to press his forehead against yours. “Nah,” he drawls. “Sorry to break it to you, Rapunzel, but truth is that we’re the only two dudes who aren’t pompous fuckfaces on this meteor. Bros gotta stick together, or we might actually grow chest sacs and start knitting or some shit. We got enough knitters.” He gestures to all the blankets on your bed.

You snort, disbelieving. “Says the douche who just told me five minutes ago that he, and I quote, ‘doesn’t even like’ me.”

“You know what’s a lot to take in,” he asks. “The fact that I would totally bone the guy I pretty much couldn’t stand a year ago. You know what else is a lot to take in? That same dude’s voice gets really fucking hot when I get him to start purring like a fancy-ass car. It’s enough to make a man start spouting out bullshit to cover his own ass." 

You don’t know what to follow that up with. You just sort of blink at him like a brain damaged wriggler.

“And now we have two single ladies no one bothered to put a ring on wandering lost through the hallways, like we’re Bambi and no daddy deer decided to educate us on the ways of being lord of his foresty domain after the hunters turned Mom into venison.”

“What,” you say.

Dave leans down and picks the trashy romance novel off the floor, where it probably fell during his tickle attack. “Fuck it,” he says. “Let’s just read about stupid ugly fuckers without priorities stumble through a shit ton of completely avoidable misunderstandings.” He hands it to you. “And I won’t touch your horns this time.”

You roll your eyes, but you smile a bit. “How gracious of you.”

“I’m the most gracious fucking guy you’ll ever meet in your miserable life.”

He watches as you lean off the bed to grab his shades, which you threw off, and hand them back to him. He folds them neatly and puts them on the small table you have off to the side.

Next, he scoots towards the wall until his back is to it, and adjusts the blankets behind him. He’s right in the middle of the bed. You scowl at him and move to fit yourself into one side when he grabs your waist and pulls you back towards him until you’re sitting between his legs, your back to his front. He makes you lean against him and he puts his chin on your shoulder.

“Let’s go, Sparrow, this book ain’t gonna read itself.”

You turn your head to glare at him. “Sparrow? Are you fucking serious?”

He kisses your temple. “New nickname, born of your nest of a hairstyle. Can’t change it now, I’ve already decided. I sent it to Congress and they signed that shit so fast, it didn’t even get a minute on the podium. President is like, “shit, that’s adorable” and he totes put it on the news. Everyone already knows, bro, it’s already caught on. You’re doomed to be a sparrow for the rest of your life.”

“Shut up,” you say and push his head off your shoulder.

“Plus,” he says, like you didn’t even say anything, “a lot more shit rhymes with Sparrow than Karkat.”

You open the book huffily and flip through it until you find where you left off. “I hope you fall down a flight of stairs.” You raise your chin and glance back at him. “Multiple flights of stairs. All the stairs. Every single goddamn one.”

He wraps his arms around your waist. “You say the sweetest things.”

“Fuck you.”

“Kay, but you gonna cockblock me this time?”

Fine, you can play this game too. You’re not totally inept at romance. Wiggling a little to get comfortable, (his breath hitches, you are sure you heard that. Point for you) you lean back against him, you state simply, “Maybe.” And you open your mouth to start reading but he covers it with a hand.

“By the way,” he says, “it’s better to comb out your locks when they’re still damp. So next time you wanna get hygienic you should message me so I can prepare my shitty little bone saw.”

“Or you could, you know, just give me one of my own so I don’t have to call you whenever my hair gets ever so slightly messy.”

He shakes his head. “Nope, like this idea better. We’re gonna slowly feed your emaciated attention gland back to full health, get it all nice and plump for everyone when we meet back up, hope that you don’t shit yourself when Jade tackles you to the ground in a friendship attack. Gotta prepare you, bro. She’s intense.”

You try to hit him in the head blindly, you get his ear. “If I say yes will you shut up and let me read?”

“No guarantees, but it’ll probably increase the chances.”

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll message you after I clean myself so you can inflict more torture on me with your piece of shit bone saw.”

He huffs. “After?”

You start to read very loudly and persistently until he stops poking you in the cheek, before you lower your voice to a more moderate level.

He takes his comb to your hair again, the fucker.

“Hey Karkles,” he asks four pages later. “Can I cut your hair?”

You narrow your eyes in suspicion. “Why?"

“’Cause you’re beginning to look like an emo kid and I’m getting the irrational fear that you’ll start listening to Fall Out Boy and wearing Rose’s clothes. You wait any longer and Rapunzel won’t be such a ridiculous nickname for you. Shorter hair’s easier to manage, anyway.”

Exaggerating a sigh and tossing your hands up in defeat you say, “Fine, why not! But if you touch my horns in public, I will throw you in the air ducts covered in Faygo.”

“As long as you don’t do it when any ventilation creepers are on their ‘periods’ I’ll go with Challenge Accepted for two hundred.”

Thank god everyone else is so preoccupied with each other, he’d probably have trouble finding an opportunity to do that.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> EDIT: now with [fanart](http://introsquirrel.tumblr.com/post/46520471411/roabutts-what-is-this-another-davekat-before-i)! it's adorable and wonderful and thank you (fixed link)
> 
> [Here's another one!](http://kivakivaa.tumblr.com/post/67112907558/the-size-is-funky-so-fullview-looks-just-a-tiny)


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